Royal Inheritance by Kate Emerson

for long. Winter turned into spring and spring into another summer. My life went on much as it had before, with lessons and the occasional foray to court with Father. On some of those occasions I would make my curtsey to the king and he would speak a few words to me before moving on. At other times, I would see him only from a distance, though he did seem to be looking back.”
    “What about the duchess and Mary Shelton? Did you go back to Norfolk House after the queen’s disgrace?”
    “I did whenever the Duchess of Richmond was in residence there but I was never, as Father had hoped, offered a place in her household. Still, I did sometimes stay in Lambeth for a day or two at a time and I was often invited to take meals there. I must confess I preferred dining in Lambeth to eating meals at home. Even in Lent, there was meat. The Earl of Surrey had a special dispensation that extended to everyone at his table. It made me feel quite wicked to eat something other than fish.”
    Audrey fell silent, remembering that when word had come to Watling Street of the earl’s arrest, her first foolish thought had been that it was for his defiance of church law. She had feared that she, too, might be taken off to prison.
    That had not been the charge against him.
    “In July, shortly after I attained the age of fourteen, the Earl of Surrey was sent to the Fleet for challenging a member of the royal household to a duel.”
    Hester’s eyes went round with delight.
    “Such things are forbidden,” Audrey reminded her, her voice sharp with reproach. “His sister prudently withdrew to Kenninghall, the family estate in Norfolk. She took her household with her and, once again, I was left behind.”

16
Watling Street, August 1542
    T he great poet Petrarch sang his words to the music of a lyre,” Jack Harington lectured. “It was once the custom for long poems to be recited to the harp. Nowadays courtier-poets sing to the accompaniment of their lutes. Without one skill, the other is useless.”
    Bridget scowled at him. “I can strum a lute as well as Audrey can.” This was a blatant lie, and even Bridget knew it.
    “You lack her delicate touch and your voice . . .” With a sigh, he gave up his attempt to find words adequate to describe Bridget’s singing. The raucous cawing of a crow is a sweeter sound.
    We had no songbooks. Jack would perform a piece of music over and over again until we committed the sequence of notes to memory and could reproduce it accurately. Vocal music was easier to learn. Most songs were short and repetitious and often several different ones were set to the same melody. Had Bridget been able to carry a tune, she would have excelled at singing, for she memorized lyrics without difficulty.
    Jack took the lute from her and handed her the cittern, a similarstringed instrument that was easier to master. “Play ‘And I Was a Maiden,’ if you please.”
    Well before that summer, Elizabeth had married and gone to live in her husband’s house, and Muriel, having learned the rudiments, had asked to be excused from more lessons. She preferred to devote her time to perfecting skills more typical of the housewife she hoped to become. As the light in the hall was too poor for sewing that day—it had been raining since early morning—she was in the kitchen with Mother Anne and the maids, even Edith, making last year’s quinces into marmalade before they could rot in their storage barrel.
    Bridget had no interest in my other studies, but she insisted upon continuing her instruction in music. I winced as she plucked the wrong string. I enjoyed playing far more at Norfolk House, without my sister. There members of the duchess’s intimate circle were wont to pass the time singing part-music. It was notated very straightforwardly, or so I had been told. I could not read the music for myself.
    When the piece ended, I set my lute on the padded bench beside me and sent Jack an earnest look. “There is a bound ballad book